


So Much More Than They've Got Planned

by theMightyPen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Beauty and the Beast references, F/M, Future Fic, Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For who could ever learn to love a beast?</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Much More Than They've Got Planned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> I would say that I'm sorry for the amount of Beauty and the Beast references in this...but I'm not. Many thanks to Niamh for forcing me to write, finish, and publish this behemoth.

Ever since the Final Battle, as the common-folk were calling it, had occurred, with the appearance of both the terrifying White Walkers and the equally frightening dragons of Daenerys Targaryen, rumors about those involved had flown fast and quick across all of Westeros.

In fact, there were so many that it was impossible to keep fact and fiction apart, even amongst those who had been there and witnessed the admittedly fantastic events that had occurred. Ice and fire had battled for hours, days (even weeks, some argued, though that was largely disputed), and eventually both of the forces behind them—the White Walkers and the dragons—had perished, leaving peace in their wake.

A very bloody, much disputed peace, but a peace all the same.

And so Wylla pays no mind to the many rumors that reach White Harbor about skin changers and blue roses and red women who could control flames. The Seven knew there had been stranger tales told, and she would not pay heed to such wild rumors, not with much more pressing issues at hand.

The newly rediscovered Lord Stark—Brandon, second son of the late Lord Eddard and his Lady Catelyn—has come back from beyond the Wall, reclaiming Winterfell from the horror of the Boltons and restoring House Stark to their rightful place as Wardens of the North.

It would not be two months after that that the equally long-lost Lady Sansa would ride into Winterfell as well, with a host of Eyrie guardsmen at her back and the last remnants of brown dye in her hair; it would seem that Petyr Baelish had been keeping her hidden in the Vale these past years, under the guise of her being his bastard daughter.

“To think that that lowly upstart would dare claim a maiden of House Stark as his illegitimate child!” Grandpapa had raved, anger finally putting color back into his cheeks that had been missing since his encounter with Roose Bolton. “If I could lift myself from this bed—”

“But you cannot.” Wynafryd had interrupted smoothly, clasping his hand in her own. “And so you shall leave it to Papa to handle assuring the Starks of our continued loyalty and affection.”

Papa demonstrates House Manderly’s said loyalty and affection by returning yet another lost piece of House Stark; Rickon Stark, youngest and wildest son of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, who still speaks in an ever tangled jumble of the Common and Old tongues, who will only tolerate Wylla and Wynafryd’s presence and is likely fiercer than all of the soldiers of White Harbor combined.

Wylla is immeasurably fond of him and sadder than anyone to see him go.

Rickon has never been prone to physical affection in the two years he has resided in White Harbor, but he lets Wylla hug him the morning he is due to leave, his arms wiry and stronger than any child’s have right to be.

“Will you promise to be a good boy, Rickon?” She asks him, giving his hair a gentle stroke. “You may not remember your brother and sister very well, but they will be so glad to see you again, I am sure.”

“I wish y’could come with me.” Rickon says, bottom lip sticking out in a dangerous pout. “Can’t you, Wylla? Can’t y’come? Shaggy likes you best and Winterfell is bigger and better than White Harbor. You’ll see if you come!”

She laughs, smiling down at his dear, dear face. “I am afraid not, sweetling. But if your lord brother deems it appropriate, I can visit you whenever you’d like. I promise.”

Rickon’s face clouds and he gives her as dark a look as she’s ever seen. “Don’t promise. No one keeps their promises. Not ever.”

And that’s the last impression he leaves her with, still looking extremely cross as he climbs on a horse behind one of the guardsmen and rides north.

There’s not much time to wonder what could have caused such a young boy—because for all that Rickon has seen, he’s still a child, still just scarcely seven years old and small enough for her to carry on her back and to pick up when he’d fallen asleep outside, still unused to sleeping within walls—to be so untrusting of a simple promise, because all of Westeros has suffered in this war, the North perhaps most of all.

And despite her very best intentions, Rickon had been right all along to forbid her making such a promise. She does not see him for two years, can scarcely spare time to write him a letter once a month, because there is suddenly so much to do.

Papa has somehow managed to craft a betrothal with House Hightower for Wynafryd. It makes sense that she will marry Humfrey Hightower. Though Lord Humfrey is as of just high birth as Wyn, he also happens to be very far down on the list of heirs to Oldtown, which will make him the perfect husband for her sister, who is Papa’s heir presumptive, as there are no male Manderlys at all to inherit.

“Leyton Hightower has agreed to our terms that Humfrey will take the Manderly name as long as he and Wynafryd’s firstborn son is given a Hightower name.” Papa explains. “And it will tie us and the North more closely to the Reach, which will be good for trade as well as morale. The Seven know we all need to stand together as much as possible in this strange new world of ours.”

And Humfrey Hightower is nearly something out of a dream; witty, kind, and exceedingly handsome, he successfully charms the entirety of House Manderly after only one day in White Harbor.

Wynafryd, especially, seems smitten, and judging by the lingering looks and near inappropriate amounts of attention Humfrey lavishes on her, Wylla would hazard he feels the same.

Mother, Seven help her, titters endlessly about what a lovely match they make, and how lucky both houses are to be united thus.

“I cannot imagine it will be as easy for my dear good-father to find a match for our Wylla.” She says—loudly, of course, voice carrying over the music of the small feast so that Wylla and Wynafryd and Humfrey and anyone else present may hear as well—“My younger daughter is not so…refined as my eldest, you see, and I have often despaired of ever making a lady of her.”

Wylla knows what reputation she has garnered, especially when compared to her sister.

In truth, close as they are, Wylla doubts very much there have ever been such opposites to be found in sisters.

Where Wynafryd is willowy and fine-boned, womanhood had come with a vengeance for Wylla, giving her curves and breasts that she still did not truly know how to manage, even at nearly nine and ten.

Her hair, dyed in defiance of her mother, has been that way since she was just a child, garish and green and tightly braided, compared to Wyn’s own silky brown locks that she now chooses to wear loose.

Wynafryd has always been silent when needed, voicing her opinion only at the proper times, and has earned a reputation for prudence and intelligence that Wylla has often envied. She herself has often let her temper and her tongue get the better of her, earning her own moniker of “willfully Wylla.”

“Such a peculiar girl,” her mother’s ladies-in-waiting whisper, “such an odd child.”

“Very different from the rest of us, no doubt.”

“Nothing like the rest of us.”

“Quite the puzzle.”

Wylla has been an oddity her whole life. She supposes it should be no different now, whether she is to marry or not.

 

* * *

 

 The night before Wynafryd and Humfrey’s wedding, Wylla sneaks into her sister’s room, as she always has after nights of excitement or distress.

This, she thinks, is a bit of both.

“You’re to be married, Wyn.” Wylla whispers, squeezing her sister’s hand in the dark. “And Humfrey is lovely. I quite like my soon-to-be good-brother. Not to mention he’s a Hightower, and all that entails; much better, much more honorable than those damned Freys—”

“Grandpapa would never have truly allowed us to be married to them, Wylla.” Wynafryd interrupts. “Not after the horror of what happened at the Twins.”

Wylla scowls, thinking of Lady Catelyn and King Robb and Uncle Wendel and Lady Daecy and so many other good, strong, brave Northman, who had deserved such better fates than to die at a macabre wedding feast in the horrid Twins.  “It’s a pity we could not do more to avenge them.” She says. “I should have liked to help bake those clever pies myself, or do one better and help Lord Tully rid the Riverlands of every last one of those beastly, godless—”

“Wylla!” Wynafryd cries, sitting up suddenly. “A lady should not say such things!”

Wylla sighs, turning her face to the window. “And why not? Should we not feel as men do? Should we not want revenge for the lives of loved ones taken from us? For Uncle Wendel, for all of the men we sent south who never saw snow again, nor had the honor of a proper burial?”

“It is not our province to extract revenge.” Wynafryd says. “I know you are passionate, dear sister, but I worry that your nature will frighten away suitors that Grandpapa and Papa may choose for you—”

Irritated, Wylla sits up as well. “Is there not more to life than marriage, Wyn? Can I not be more than merely a wife and mother?”

Wynafryd sighs, pinching her nose. “Those are both noble occupations, Wylla. Occupations that I shall soon fill—”

“And you will be wonderful.” Wylla cuts in. “I do not mean to insult or belittle you or those titles, it is only…”

“Only what?” Wyn asks, suddenly wrapping an arm around her. As always, her sister knows her moods better than Wylla does, sensing her younger sister’s sudden shift from aggravation to melancholy without a word. “What is it you are trying to tell me?”

Wylla sighs. “I am happy for you, Wynafryd. Truly. And I do not hate the idea of being a wife or mother…and Seven know I could be a better lady, but it is just…” She huffs, resting her head on her sister’s shoulder. “I want so much _more_ than that. I want an adventure, a challenge, anything other than this simple… _provincial_ life. And I know that is selfish, after all that has happened, after how many people have suffered and died but…I cannot change what I want.”

And Wynafryd tuts, comforting her, but in her heart, Wylla knows that her sister does not truly understand. Wynafryd has always been dutiful, practical, and steady; she does not understand the sensation of feeling so trapped, so utterly confined by the requirements of lady-hood that she feels as if she might explode. Perhaps she might, but it is buried so deeply under layers of will-power and conscientiousness that it has never come to light.

“All will be well, sweet sister.” Wynafryd coos, kissing Wylla’s forehead and tucking a wisp of green hair behind her ear. “All will be well.”

And so it is when her sister and confidant has been wed and then dismissed to her bedding, with an adorably blushing Humfrey at her side that Wylla finds herself alone with her mother.

Lady Leona Manderly has always had a preference between her two daughters; Wylla does not know what she has done to so lower herself in her mother’s eyes, but she is always, eternally, unendingly aware that she is not the favorite, at least as far as the elder woman is concerned.

This night, however, her mother has had enough to drink that she seems to be in a good mood, patting Wylla’s cheek softly.

“It will be you next, sweetling.” Mother sighs. “And I fear you shall have to leave White Harbor to be wed; it is not as if there shall be room for you and a husband here, on top of everyone else.”

Wylla nods silently, dreading the thought. Must she be bartered away, like a casket of Arbor gold or Dorish red? To be traded as if she has no feelings, a piece of property to advance her family, no matter how much Grandpapa and Papa claim to adore her?

“Do not look so cross at the idea.” Mother snaps, good mood seemingly evaporating at the pinched look on Wylla’s face. “I have heard from your father that your grandfather is seriously considering a match with House Stark for you. You might as well attempt to be grateful.”

Wylla gulps, mouth suddenly dry. “House Stark? But Mother, Lord Brandon is—”

Where she had meant to say ‘so much younger than I’, her mother interrupts, eyes alight with mischief.

“Ah, so you have heard the rumors then, daughter? I had not thought you to put stock in such things, especially not about your beloved Starks.”

Wylla blinks, utterly lost. “Rumors? And what rumors would those be, Mother?”

Leona smiles, leaning close; there is nothing Mother loves better than gossip, except Papa. “Oh, that our current Lord Stark is not only a cripple, but also a monstrous warg, has seen through the eyes of ravens and trees and wolves, and is likely more beast than man. You truly have heard nothing of this?”

Wylla had, in fact, heard much of the same, but had dismissed them on principle. How could a boy, just two and ten, whom Rickon had only had good memories of, be some storybook monster?

“I believe them stories, Mother.” Wylla says firmly. “Nothing more.”

Leona laughs, patting her cheek. “We shall see, sweetling. We shall see.”

 

* * *

 

Mother had been right about one thing; Grandpapa had indeed managed to arrange a match between Lord Stark and herself, to be carried out once the boy-lord had come of age.

“Lord Stark is a fine man, my girl.” Papa says, hugging her against his still-too large belly when she came to beg him to intercede on her behalf, that she was young yet and Lord Stark even younger, that there was no need to arrange this match. “And it was Lady Sansa who suggested it; Rickon, apparently, has talked of little else but you concerning his stay in White Harbor, and she is certain that someone that was kind to one brother would be just as gentle with the other.”

And she knows it to be a selfish thought, she knows it to be unkind, but she does not _want_ a husband she must be gentle with, a child that will make her feel unclean to even dream of touching him in the way a wife is expected to touch a husband, a supposed greenseer and warg and near mythical person she may never come to understand.

Her father reads the distress on her face, but comes to a different conclusion. Frowning, he takes a step back from her, moving away from her embrace. “I would have thought we had raised you better than this, Wylla Manderly.”

“Papa?” She asks, confused. “I am afraid I don’t understand--"

“It is true that Lord Stark cannot use his legs,” Wylis says, Manderly blue eyes stormy with disappointment, “but neither can your grandfather and he is a more than capable lord, and apparently has been wrong in thinking you mature enough to handle this great honor for our family—”

Wylla pales, horrified. “Oh no, Papa, it is not that at all! I know the worth of a man is not in his legs.” She says quickly. “I only…oh, Papa, he is so young! I am seven years his elder and will be three and twenty when we are wed. He will be just six and ten—”

Her father’s face changes, morphing into an expression of understanding with a tinge of sympathy. “Oh, my girl.” He says, hugging her close again. “Oh, sweetling. You need not fret about that.”

She stares at him. “Need not fret? He is a child!”

“He will not always be thus.” Papa says, attempting to soothe. “And the unfortunate truth is that it may not matter that you will wed so late; neither he nor the Starks’ maester is sure he will be able to give you children, my girl. And for that, I am sorry.”

And suddenly she understands why it is _her_ marrying Lord Stark; the rest of the Northern lords do not want to gamble their eldest daughters on a possibly childless union, not when there are other, more advantageous matches to be had, but with Wynafryd already four years married to Humfrey, with little Gerold already born to them and another Manderly on the way…

 _Peculiar, odd, willful Wylla for a greenseeing, skin-changing Stark._ She thinks bitterly. _There could be no better match._

 

* * *

 

And though it feels like the blink of an eye, quite suddenly three months have passed, and Wylla rides into Winterfell with Papa and Humfrey on either side of her.

She finds herself infinitely grateful for her good-brother’s presence; Humfrey is everything she could have ever wanted in a husband for her beloved Wynafryd, and he is also the very model of what she ever could have wanted in an elder brother.

(She suspects he has learned from having so many examples in his own life to follow.)

“All the snow you could ever want, dear sis.” He says, helping her down from her horse with a wicked smile. “And not a fussy mother in sight.”

Wylla whacks his shoulder, frowning to suppress her laughter as he winks at her. Their mirth is interrupted by Papa offering her his elbow.

“Lord Stark cannot maneuver in the courtyard with all of this snow.” He explains. “We will meet him and Lady Sansa inside.”

And then he whisks her away, Humfrey trotting along behind them, offering Wylla a different silly face every time she turns to look back at him—he knows how nervous she is, how frightened she feels to come and be the Lady of Winterfell, to start headlong into this adventure she neither desires nor knows how to prepare for—but stops abruptly when they have reached the Great Hall.

“Ah, Lord Manderly, Lord Humfrey, Lady Wylla.” Lady Sansa says, because there can be no doubt who the beautiful, red-haired woman is, graceful and precise in her movements as she offers them bread and salt. “We are honored to have you here.”

“Yes, do be our guests.” A sullen voice says, causing Wylla to jump; the source is yet another beautiful woman, but one who is small and dark compared to Lady Sansa’s tall, fair beauty, with a sword at her hip and her brown hair cut short. That, Wylla is sure, must be the Lady Arya, only so recently returned from wherever she had been since her lord father’s death in King’s Landing, so long ago now.

“Arya.” Lady Sansa says, voice sharp. “Apologize; we owe House Manderly a great debt.”

Lady Arya grumbles something under her breath that earns another piercing look from her sister—Wylla is struck suddenly with a memory of a similar exchange between herself and Wyn and it makes her smile, just a little—before sighing. “My apologies, my lords, my lady. I am still relearning how to behave around civilized company.”

“Wylla!” A familiar voice calls and suddenly Wylla finds herself assaulted by a bouncing Rickon, shorter-haired and better-fed than she’s ever seen him. “Y’came, y’came! Just like you promised!”

Wylla laughs, hugging him back; he’s taller now, nearly up to her chin and it hurts, just slightly, to see him so grown. “Aye, that I did, my lord. I am only sorry it took so long.”

“It would appear you are not the only one relearning how to behave, Lady Arya.” Papa chuckles good-naturedly. “I trust that Lord Rickon has proved a far bit wilder than you.”

Rickon nods eagerly, teeth bared in his still somewhat feral smile. “Arya can’t wield a spear as fas’ as me. An’ I’m better with a bow.”

Lady Arya rolls her eyes. “It’s not polite to brag, stupid.”

“Arya.” Sansa says again, sounding exasperated.

“I am sure Lady Arya has as many talents as you do, Rickon.” Wylla says smoothly, knowing a sisterly spat brewing when she sees one. “It is truly wonderful to meet you all.”

“But where is Lord Stark?” Humfrey pipes in, mischievous as always. “Surely he did not hear of his betrothed’s arrival and hide himself away, my lady?”

Lady Sansa’s face remains a mask of cordiality, but Wylla thinks she sees a flicker of sadness in those blue Tully eyes. “Of course not, my Lord Humfrey. But I am afraid my brother is indisposed at the moment and has thus charged my sister and I with greeting you.”

“Bran’s in the trees.” Rickon says to Wylla, as nonchalantly as if he was saying that the sky was blue or snow cold.

“Rickon.” Lady Arya hisses. “You shouldn’t—”

“What my brother means is that Bran is in the godswood.” Lady Sansa interrupts smoothly. “Our maester will show you to your rooms, my lords, and I will show you to yours, Lady Wylla.”

She offers Wylla a kind smile as she offers her arm out to her, and Wylla feels as if she is the child—though Lady Sansa cannot be more than six and ten, there is a maturity about her, an air of self-control that makes her seem older than she is—but then she has to blink, blushing as she realizes her soon-to-be good-sister has called her name.

“I apologize, Lady Sansa.” Wylla says, flushing to the roots of her hair. “My mind was wandering.”

The smile Lady Sansa offers her is even warmer than the last one and lacking some of the stiffness she had had in the Great Hall. “May I ask what you were thinking of?”

 _How much a lady you seem_ , Wylla thinks, _and how little I shall be able to match you._

“How lovely Winterfell is.” Is what she says instead. “It is everything I ever imagined it would be, my lady.”

“It was lovelier still, before.” Lady Sansa says, smile dimming a little. “But we need not dwell on such things. Your room shall be here, beside mine and Arya’s. My sister and I enjoy tea in our solar most afternoons; you would me more than welcome.”

Wylla brightens a little, smiling at the taller woman. “I would like that very much, my lady. And, if it is not too much…might I explore? It is so vast and I would feel such a fool if I were not to know the place that is to be my home.”

“Of course you may.” Lady Sansa agrees. “Winterfell is open to you.”

Wylla opens her mouth to thank her when Lady Arya’s voice cuts across her. “Everywhere except the godswood.”

“Arya—” Lady Sansa starts to say, but her sister steps closer undeterred, dark eyes hard.

“Never the godswood, my lady. It is the one place my brother finds solace and therefore off limits to anyone he has not given express permission to enter.”

 

* * *

 

Despite Lady Arya’s less-than-polite instruction, Wylla has no real need to even think of exploring the godswood. The keep itself is so vast that she suspects it will take her months to sort it all out, and for now this is just a visit, just a trip of a few short weeks so that she may meet her betrothed.

Whom she has seen neither hide nor hair of, though Rickon had come bursting into her room not an hour before, declaring that his brother was back.

“You’ll like Bran, Wylla.” He had said, bouncing on her bed, rumpling her dresses as her maids scowled at him. “E’loves to read. Read read read and write write write. Tha’s Bran.”

“I see.” Wylla said, indulging him—she was always indulging him, but how could she not? This dear, fierce little boy who could wield a spear better than men twice his age but still asked for stories before bed time deserves every ounce of kindness she possesses and more. “Is that all that Bran does?”

“No.” Rickon answered, abruptly stopping in his bouncing. “He flies.”

The serving girls had giggled, clearly thinking it a jape, but the word _warg_ rang in Wylla’s head and she felt her heart jump.

But then Rickon had run off again, declaring he was going to play with Shaggy, and Wylla was left to her own devices.

She chooses to explore, having escaped from her ladies’ maids. There are so many rooms, so many doors to choose from, that she picks the most innocuous first; a lower, strangely bare hallway. They have hallways much like it at home in White Harbor, but there the walls are often hung with tapestries or paintings. There are no such decorations here and it strikes Wylla as odd, to see the walls empty of anything.

Well, almost anything, because as she looks closer, it is clear that there are strange marks, black and sooty and horrible looking.

“Those are scorch marks, my lady.” An unfamiliar voice calls, making her jump.

She turns to find a man—a boy really—in a wheeled chair looking at her. His hair is darker than the fire red of his eldest sister and younger brother; more auburn than anything; and his eyes are a bright blue-green in his still boyish face. It is said throughout the North that he looks like the Young Wolf come again, but Wylla cannot imagine this boy ever leading anyone to battle, let alone transforming into a direwolf as it was rumored that his brother could. There is an innate gentleness to him, but also a strangeness that makes something in her stomach drop. Truly, she does not know what to think of him, just from the first glance.

“Lord Stark.” She says, dropping into a curtsey. “I had not thought to disturb you; shall I leave?”

His face remains impassive and the boy gives a shrug. “You are not bothering me, my lady. It is natural to be curious about a place you have never seen before, especially one with such a history as this.”

 _By the Seven_ , she thinks, _he sounds a hundred years old. And looks scarcely older than Rickon, but for those eyes._

“Would you tell me of that history, my lord?” She asks. “I confess, I do not know much about your home.”

The smile he offers her is polite, distant, distracted. Even Lady Sansa’s smile had held more warmth and Wylla wilts a little despite herself; how is she to marry the man when he already looks straight through her?

“Another time perhaps, my lady.” He says. “I fear we shall be late to dinner if we linger over long here.”

And she knows it is petty, because he is in a wheeled chair and can hardly offer her his arm, even if he should want to, but she feels even more distance between herself and the boy who will one day be her husband when he turns and leads her back the way she came without another word.

 

* * *

 

The awkward incident in the hallway aside, their welcoming feast from the Starks manages to be mostly pleasant.

Wylla would even have called it entirely pleasant, were it not for the barbs Lady Arya seemed insistent on throwing her way every time there was a lull in the conversation.

“Have you ever held a sword, my lady?” Lady Arya asks, dark eyes alight with mischief and the slightest malice. “Or a bow?”

“I am afraid not, my lady. The sharpest thing I have ever held is a sewing needle.”

That makes Lady Sansa laugh, for some reason, while Lady Ayra’s mouth draws downward in a frown. “And is that your favorite hobby?” She asks, disdain clear in her voice. “Sewing?”

“Wylla likes to read.” Rickon supplies helpfully. “An’ ride; she’s a good rider.”

Wylla shoots him a small smile; it is comforting to know she has at least one ally in her soon-to-be-good family.

“And to explore, I believe.” Lady Sansa adds, smiling. “Did you ever take your tour of Winterfell, my lady?”

Lord Stark answers before Wylla can. “I had wondered why you were in the lower hall today, my lady.”

“I have always suffered from an overwhelming curiosity, my lord.” Wylla answers, cheeks flushing despite herself.

“Oh ho!” Humfrey chortles. "It would seem Lord Stark and my dear sis have already become acquainted! Wylla, how could you have forgotten to mention that you had already met your betrothed?"

Wylla wonders if it truly counts as meeting someone if they scarcely speak ten civil words to you and do not acknowledge your existence, but Lady Sansa and Papa look so pleased that she cannot bear to disappoint them. "Lord Stark was kind enough to give me a bit of a story behind the bare hallway in the lower corridor. I did not think it warranted telling.”

“Was it the bare corridor or my brother that you found unimportant?” Lady Arya asks, venom plain in her voice now. “If it was the latter, perhaps you would have been better off married to one of the many Walders from the cursed House Frey after all.”

There is a moment of stunned silence before Lady Sansa, Papa, and Humfrey try to speak at once, but it is Wylla who answers her, temper finally reaching its end in the face of her soon-to-be good sister’s relentless needling.

“Wylla—” Papa attempts to say in a low tone but Wylla ignores him, hands tight on the arms of her chair as she glares at the younger Lady Stark.

“I am unaware what I have done to earn such disdain from you, _Lady_ Arya,” She hisses, not even bothering to keep the anger from her voice—because _Lady_ Arya could never understand how horrible it had been, to feign interest in the worst sort of scoundrel, to let him spin her about the floor and pretend she was not imagining her uncle’s blood (her king’s blood, the blood of all of the North) on his hands, to smile and praise him as the handsomest man in Westeros, him, Little Walder Frey with a wispy mustache and horrid breath and a cragged, wrinkled face—only just barely resisting the urge to rise to her feet, “but to accuse me of preferring that—that—that Frey monster—”

“Lady Wylla,” Lady Sansa tries, speaking in a soothing tone, “my sister is impulsive and does not _know_ of what she speaks—”

But Wylla is too angry, too hurt, too far gone to stop herself, and her mouth runs away with her again as she slams her hands down on the table, “Me, consenting to be the wife of that brutish, boorish—”

“Wylla, please.” Papa says, but she is not finished yet and she cannot stop until she makes _Lady_ Arya understand—

“I would rather have died than been Little Walder Frey’s ‘little wife’.” She finally spits. “Whatever else you may think of me, know that to be true.”

There is a stunned silence as the entire table stares at her. Wylla is very gratified to note that Lady Arya looks the most shocked, grey eyes wide in her long face, and entirely unsurprised that Humfrey looks hugely amused by her outburst.

She’s not prepared for a sudden laugh coming from Lord Stark, nor the complete change in his features as he does so; she sees the boy his siblings must know, the boy that Rickon remembered so fondly and called kind and gentle.

Once he has finished laughing, Lord Stark offers her a soft smile, looking very much like his eldest sister, who looks as amazed as Wylla feels.

“I think,” he says, strange blue-green eyes dancing with amusement, “I could almost pity the man who earns your distaste so thoroughly, my lady, Frey or not.”

“Here, here.” Says Humfrey, raising a goblet in Wylla’s direction. “My dear sis has always been a good judge of character; she liked me the minute I stepped off the boat from Oldtown, of course.”

There’s another round of laughter at that, tension forgotten, and Wylla is comforted that her betrothed does not seem to be on the verge of throwing her out in the snow after a show of temper on her part.

 _Perhaps he is not so cold after all_ , she thinks, curled under her furs that night, _perhaps there is a boy there, as lost and lonely as Rickon was._

 

 

* * *

 

After her first visit, where Lord Stark and Papa had signed the contract ensuring that she would marry Brandon Stark when he came of age, she does not return to Winterfell for another three years, being far too busy helping Wynafryd and Humfrey with their children (there were three now and Wylla had teasingly threatened Humfrey to give her sister some peace for a while before a fourth babe came along), and mourning Grandpapa, who had finally passed because of his wounds inflicted by the Boltons.

Lady Sansa had been wonderful during all of this, even venturing south for Grandpapa’s funeral when Lord Stark could not, letting Wylla rest her head on her shoulder since Mother was too busy comforting Papa and Humfrey too busy comforting Wyn and their children to worry after her.

“I am so glad you are here, my lady.” Wylla had told her, after the burial is done and everyone has retired to their rooms for the night. “I do not think I could have born this alone.”

“And I am glad to be here.” Lady Sansa answered, giving Wylla’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Though I do wish it was for a happier reason. Bran so badly wanted to come, but—”

“The journey is difficult.” Wylla interrupted. “There are no hard feelings on my part, Lady Sansa, I understand.”

Lady Sansa smiled. “I think we may drop the titles now, if it please you. I am quite tired of calling you ‘my lady’ all of the time when you already feel half of a sister to me.”

As unsure as Wylla is of Lady Arya’s (and to an extent, Lord Stark himself) regard for her, of Lady Sansa’s she has no such qualms.

After Sansa had returned north, they exchanged letters nearly once a week, speaking on trivial matters and trials and tribulations; it comforts Wylla in a way she cannot express, having a friend and confidant again. Wynafryd is her sister and she loves her dearly, but Wyn is also a wife and a mother now, and cannot waste time on soothing her younger sister’s frazzled nerves or listening to her daily stories the way Sansa can.

Sansa, too, it seems, needs a friend as much as Wylla does.

_There is talk of me marrying again, Wylla, and I have avoided it for so long now—you must understand that Bran would never force me, but I believe it might be in the North’s best interest if I consider it…_

So she finds herself in the position of unofficial councilor, giving Sansa advice on how best to avoid unwelcome advances, how to properly word refusals for her hand so that none of the many lords vying for her are offended, and suggestions on how to keep Rickon and Arya from murdering any of her suitors.

But from the very first time Sansa mentions Lord Willas Tyrell, heir to Highgarden and visiting dignitary from the King and Queen, Wylla knows that this suitor is very different from all the rest.

Every other word in Sansa’s letters becomes “Lord Tyrell suggested” or “Lord Tyrell so enjoys the library” or “and then Lord Tyrell said”; she is very unsurprised when Sansa writes to tell her that she has become betrothed to the wonderful Lord Tyrell.

 _As such,_ Sansa writes, in her beautifully precise script, _I must insist that you visit Winterfell once more before I leave, if only that we may see each other again before I go south, and so that I can serve as you and Bran’s chaperone one last time before my departure._

Her second visit to Winterfell begins much as her last one did; Lord Stark is once again in the godswood upon her arrival, and Sansa, Lady Arya, and Rickon welcome her, all with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Rickon practically tackles her once she is off of her horse; at one and ten, the little boy she had so adored has suddenly grown, all knobby knees and shaggy hair and dirty hands.

Lady Arya is infinitely more polite, having apparently developed a grudging respect for Wylla in the past three years (at least, according to Sansa), and she rather hopes she will be able to develop half as good a relationship with her younger good-sister as she has with the elder.

Sansa is starry-eyed and dreamy, still in a daze from her soon-to-be husband’s departure, and she loops her arm through Wylla’s with a contented sigh. “I wish you could have come sooner, Wylla.” Sansa confesses. “You could have met Lord Tyrell; I am certain the two of you would get along splendidly.”

“She’ll go on for days about him if you let her.” Lady Arya adds in an undertone. “Best distract her now.”

Wylla stifles a giggle as Sansa glares at her younger sister. “I hardly mind, Lady Arya—”

“Why d’you call Arya ‘lady’?” Rickon interrupts. “Y’don’t call me lord. Or Sansa ‘lady’.”

“Because, stupid, she has manners, unlike you.” Arya says; there’s no bite in her voice, however, and she ruffles her brother’s hair to ease any hurt her words might have caused. “You can call me Arya, if you’d like to, Lady Wylla. We are to be sisters, after all.”

Wylla blinks, slightly stunned; while she is willing to believe that Lady—Arya, then, just Arya—has no hard feelings towards her, to be given that right, so soon within her second visit was beyond anything she had expected. “I would be honored.” Wylla manages to answer. “And I must insist you call me Wylla, then.”

“Happily.” Arya says with a smirk. “High time we do away with all of those stuffy titles anyways. They served me no purpose in Braavos and serve even less with someone who is to be my family.”

Wylla feels a slight pricking at her eyes at that; for any of the Starks to refer to her as family is hugely complimentary, but to have such regard from Arya, who had seemingly hated her…well, it was enough to convince her that this visit would likely go infinitely better than the last one, in all respects.

To top it all off, there is a vase of flowers waiting for her in her room—calla lilies, her absolute favorite, that only grow on the coast and she cannot understand how or why they are here—and she turns to Sansa with a beaming smile.

They had discussed their favorite things in a letter once, nearly two years ago, and she is touched to the core that Sansa would remember and leave her some in an attempt to make her feel welcome.

“Sansa, the lilies are lovely.” She says, giving them a gentle sniff. “And fresh too; however did you manage?”

“Hm?” Sansa asks, blue eyes coming back into focus from where she’d been staring off into space—likely thinking of Lord Willas again—and she gives Wylla a strange look. “What lilies?”

Wylla looks down at the flowers in the vase. Sansa’s lips twist a little and she drifts closer to inspect them as well. “I did not call for lilies to be put in your room, Wylla, I swear it.” She blushes a little, twisting a piece of hair around her finger. “I am afraid I have been rather…distracted of late.”

“I cannot imagine why.” Wylla says, deadpan, earning a pinch.

It is not until she has shooed Sansa from the room so that they might both change for her welcoming feast that Wylla thinks to wonder who else could have known her fondness for lilies.

 

* * *

 

Looking back, Wylla supposes she should have known that their good fortune could not have lasted.

At first, the feast seemed to be going quite well; a few of the other Northern houses were still visiting Winterfell as well, as the news of Sansa’s betrothal had only been officially been announced a few days previously. Wylla had had the opportunity to meet many of the men she had heard so much about from her father and grandfather, being escorted around the Great Hall by a stony looking Arya and an overly-eager Rickon.

“So this is our future Lady Stark.” A tall man booms—an Umber, judging by the sigil on his jerkin—smiling down at her. “You must have taken after your mother, my lady, as you are slenderer by half than either your father or your uncle.”

Wylla laughs, only taken aback slightly by the man’s bluntness. “You should see my sister, my lord, for she is thinner even than I. Plumpness must be a male Manderly trait.”

“You certainly have the Manderly wit, my lady.” He laughs. “Lord Jon Umber, at your service.”

“Lady Wylla, at yours.” She answers. “It is an honor to meet a man my father speaks so highly of.”

“Praise from Wylis Manderly is praise indeed.” Lord Umber says. “Especially if it’s for anything besides food.”

Wylla cannot help but laugh, even if it is at her dear Papa’s expense; there is no denying her father’s fondness for rich food and fine wine, and Lord Umber seems anything but malicious.

She rather expects that she would have come like the elder man as much as her father had, were they not interrupted by the sudden arrival by Lord Stark, fresh from the godswood. Wylla is surprised at the change that three mere years has wrought in him; he is still in his wheeled chair, of course, but obviously taller, shoulders broader, and even the hint of a beard on his chin.

 _A child no longer_ , she thinks, quite amazed and more than a little embarrassed about how her cheeks flush when he smiles at something Sansa says to him in welcome.

He must have asked for her, because his eyes meet hers in the next instant and the flush in her cheeks spreads to her neck, prompting Rickon to ask if she is alright and please not to faint the way Sanny did when Arya first came back?

Lord Stark—Bran—smiles at her and Wylla feels absurdly flustered; she could handle a distant and cold boy, but this is something entirely different, something entirely new.

The night could have been infinitely pleasant, if that had been it, but Lord Stark’s attention is abruptly called away by a loud voice demanding his attention.

“Fucking Hells.” Lord Umber groans quietly, causing Wylla to jump at the seemingly out of place curse. “I apologize, my lady, but my idiot of a cousin is causing trouble.”

And Lord Umber is right; another Umber, one of his many cousins who had caused such trouble during the War of the Five Kings, has stalked up to the great table, looking menacing and angry and only feet away from Sansa and Bran. Wylla does not like the sight of that at all, and judging how Arya and Rickon have tensed beside her, she would guess they do not either.

“You owe us all a damn good explanation why your sister is marrying some soft, fussy Southron lord over any of our boys, _Lord_ Stark.” The man says.

“House Stark will be bound to the North through my own marriage, Lord Umber. There is no reason for us to further isolate ourselves from the other kingdoms by my sister marrying here as well.” Bran says calmly. “And most importantly, my sister has suffered much in her life and will not play a part in forcing her to marry yet another man she does not want to.”

“Perhaps you’re the soft one, eh? Listening to the whims of a woman over your own bannermen! I suppose I shouldn’t expect any better from a damned cripple.”

Wylla is infinitely glad she is far enough from the table that she has no opportunity to lose her temper at the man; as it is, she’s also glad she’s close enough to both Arya and Rickon to prevent them from doing the same, wrapping one arm firmly around Rickon’s shoulders and gripping Arya’s wrist with her free hand.

“My decision is final.” Bran says, the barest hints of anger in his otherwise authoritative voice. “Not only is this match advantageous for the North, but it will make my sister happy. I am sorry if you take this as some imagined slight to you, Lord Umber, but there is no better course of action.”

The entire hall is frozen, silent, waiting for the next words to fall from either mouth. The older man shifts, a snarl on his lips and his hand sliding to his sword.

“No other course of action? What if I slit your craven throat right here and claimed your prissy sister for my own? I wouldn’t have any trouble ridding her of her maidenhead, unlike the damned Imp, and once that was done I’d do away with your wolf-bitch sister and your wildling brother too—”

And suddenly everything happens at once; there’s a great outcry from everyone in Great Hall, a ferocious roar that echoes off of the stone walls, Arya rips herself from Wylla’s grip to dart toward the great table as the Greatjon and Rickon yank her behind them, and then suddenly an agonized scream that stuns the hall into silence once more.

There’s so much commotion that it takes nearly an hour for the story to be pieced together, and even then, Wylla’s not sure she wants to believe it.

Summer, Bran’s direwolf, who was by all accounts the gentlest of the Starks’ three wolves, had ripped the man’s throat out at the same moment Arya had run him through with her lean little sword. Sansa was unharmed but more than a little shaken; Rickon was torn between being furious that he had been unable to help his siblings, puffed up with pride that he had managed to protect Wylla, and distraught at the thought of losing anyone of them, choosing to cling to Sansa, Arya, and Wylla in a cycle.

Bran himself, had fallen from his chair at the moment Summer had burst through the doors; no one was quite sure of what had happened to cause that, but Wylla had sworn she had seen his eyes go white just before the Greatjon had hidden her from view.

 _Warg_ , she thinks, remembering the rumors her mother had so warned her of.

But when she thinks of what might have happened had Summer—or Bran, if he is truly a warg—had not done what he did, it frightens her more than the idea of her husband-to-be being the stuff of legends.

He certainly doesn’t look the stuff of legends when she enters his solar later in the night; Rickon was refusing to leave Sansa or Arya’s sides and would not either of them leave his sight, and Wylla only manages to extract herself by claiming to need to use the washroom.

In truth, someone needs to check on Lord Stark, because he is in such a foul temper that even sweet Maester Samwell cannot reason with him, and though Wylla thinks herself the person least suited for the job, Sansa insists she should be the one to go.

“You mean more to him than you think, Wylla.” Sansa says, offering her a shaky smile, one hand absentmindedly stroking Rickon’s hair. “It may do him some good to speak with you; that was what he intended to do before the…interruption.”

So it’s Wylla that enters his solar with a bowl of water and a few strips of cloth; Sam had told her that Bran had a nasty head-wound—nothing life threatening, of course, but head-wounds did tend to bleed quite a bit and he wouldn’t let Sam touch him, please, my lady, could you not speak some sense to him?

“Lord Stark?” She asks tentatively, feeling entirely out of place. “Maester Samwell and your sisters asked me to check on you—”

“I am fine.” He growls out, looking anything but; the blood had crusted to his forehead where he had clearly grazed his chair on the way down. “I need no assistance.”

Wylla’s mouth turns down in a frown; she’s experienced Stark stubbornness many times over in Rickon, but had always personally though Lord Stark—Bran—to be more levelheaded than that.

“Nonsense.” She says, stepping closer despite the dark look he gives her. “You have blood all over you, my lord, at least let me clean it?”

He sits unmoving when she moves to stand beside him, eyes glued to the wall behind her as she gently tucks a piece of hair behind his ear so that she can examine the cut better. It doesn’t appear to be too deep and she expects he’ll likely have a bruise blooming there come morning, but it’s certainly nothing too alarming. She dabs one of the strips of cloth in the water, soaking it enough so that she might wipe the dried blood away.

Lord Stark flinches as if she’s stuck him when she gently presses the cloth to his forehead, pulling away from her sharply. “I said I did not need help!”

Wylla fixes him with a stony look. “I am afraid I must disagree with you, my lord.”

She tries again, but before she can even stretch her hand back out towards him, he’s wheeled himself backwards a little, scowling even more. “It stings and I—”

“You are nearly a man grown.” Wylla interrupts. “And the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, with the blood of the First Men in your veins. I think you can handle a little bit of a sting.”

He gapes at her for that, but does not jerk away the next time she presses the cloth to his forehead, finally succeeding in getting all of the blood off. They’re both silent as she cleans and dresses the wound, finally tying the bandage with a loose knot at the back of his head.

“Thank you, my lady.” Lord Stark says. “I apologize for my behavior before.”

“You are well within your rights to be in a foul mood, my lord.” She says, sitting in one of the chairs beside the fire. “I certainly would be if someone had threatened the lives of my family.”

“I should have controlled my temper better, both then and now.” He sighs, sounding immeasurably weary. “A man is dead because I—” He stops himself short, looking at her with those ancient eyes again. “I do not expect you to understand, my lady, but Summer and I…we have a bond that runs deeper than most and he can occasionally anticipate my emotions—”

“My lord,” Wylla interrupts again, but gently, leaning forward in her seat to meet his eyes, “I am no fool. I know why it was that Summer responded the way he did and why you fell from your chair. You need not worry about frightening me.”

She is surprised by how much she means it, but it is true. Wylla cannot imagine Bran Stark being the thing of nightmares—a skin-changer, yes, a warg, certainly, but a beast? Never.

“Then you must understand that the rumors are true.” He answers, looking older than even Grandpapa had on his last days all of a sudden. “I had hoped to tell you in my own time, to give you time to consider other options…if you wish to break our betrothal, I would understand, my lady.”

Now it is her turn to gawk at him. “Break our betrothal?” She repeats, feeling dumbfounded. “By the Seven, why would I wish to do that?”

“You know what I am. Warg, greenseer, skin-changer…monster. What lady would voluntarily submit to having such a husband?”

“A lady who also knows you to be more than that.” Wylla answers firmly. “Lord Stark—” She huffs, damning the titles that make everything so bloody formal all of the time, “Bran. I have come to know your sister very well these past few years, and your brother before that, both of whom I hold in the highest regard. Neither one has ever had a bad word to say about you. None of the people of the town can complain, nor do any of the lords, besides the unfortunate Umber whom the Greatjon himself called an idiot. You have proven yourself time and time again to be a kind, just, and brave ruler, skin-changer or not. What sort of woman would not voluntarily submit to have such a husband?”

And just as he had appeared nearly ancient just moments before, surprise gives him back his youth in spades, and he looks so young, so vulnerable in his confusion in the firelight that Wylla very nearly wants to throw her arms around him, to give him some sort of comfort. But she resists, if just barely; after all, for all that she _has_ come to know his family, this is the first true conversation they have ever had. So she gives him words instead, the only comfort she can truly provide.

“I have known monsters, my lord. And I know for certain that you are not one.”

 

* * *

 

With Sansa due to go south, she has little time to write Wylla between preparing Winterfell for her departure and her brother’s upcoming wedding, while preparing for her own wedding as well.

That does not mean that letters do not still fly from Winterfell to White Harbor and back again, for Wylla has gained a new correspondent. Her letters are addressed to Lord Stark in place of Lady Sansa, now, and she is delighted and intrigued at getting to know the man her betrothed is, beyond the mask of lord and warg and greenseer.

Bran—and now he is just Bran, Lord Stark no longer once he’d insisted that she use his name after she’d bandaged his forehead—is every bit as kind as Sansa had always spoken of him, and sweet, so sweet that she has to read her letters when she is alone in her room, for fear of her sister and good-brother and nephew teasing her for the flush in her cheeks.

It is after only three letters and two months away from Winterfell that she realizes just who had left the lilies in her room, and that thought makes her grin so widely and so foolishly that Papa whisks her wine goblet away before she can drink any more. She does not bother to tell him that it is not wine that has her so addled.

But for all she has come to know him better, through his letters and little drawings he leaves her in the margins, the teasing discussions they’ve had over riding and reading and favorite pastimes, there is still a part of her that worries that he is not revealing his whole self to her. She still worries that she may never truly come to know her husband, even when they are married, and that piece of her gives her pause when she signs her letters, writing ‘sincerely, Wylla’ instead of ‘yours, Wylla’ or, in her more daring moments, ‘love, Wylla’.

In truth, she is not sure if she loves him, not yet, but the fact that she could…

It is enough to keep her from biting Mother’s head off when she mentions Bran’s “condition” in a negative manner, enough to help her when she must bid her sister, once again swollen with child, good-bye before she rides north again, the last time she will ever belong to House Manderly.

Bran is waiting for her in the courtyard this time, alongside Arya and Rickon, and she is infinitely glad to see all of them, this dear, little, broken family that has already made her one of their own. However happy Rickon’s tight hug makes her, or how much Arya’s hand in hers make a smile bloom on her lips, Wylla would be lying if her heart doesn’t skip a beat at the sight of Bran; at six and ten, he truly is a child no longer, a man in appearance as well as age.

But his eyes are distant when she curtseys before him, and that makes her heart skip for much more unpleasant reasons.

Arya sets her fears to rest when she escorts Wylla to her room, after Rickon and Bran have lead Papa away and Sam has directed the servants where to deposit all of her things.

“He’s been in a state since Sansa left and he realized he’d have to marry you without her telling him how to properly behave.” Arya snorts, flopping down on the bed as Wylla unloads one of her trunks. “Sansa has been his backbone for so long now—all of ours, really—and he’s not quite sure how to function without her.”

Wylla understood the feeling well; it pains her more than she can express that the girl who has become her dearest friend would not be present for her wedding, just like she would also likely miss Sansa’s own.

“I miss her too.” Wylla admits, coming to lie beside Arya, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I should have asked her more about being the Lady of Winterfell; I feel woefully unprepared for it all.”

“Don’t be daft.” Arya says, giving Wylla’s shoulder a less-than-gentle whack. “You will be infinitely better than I ever would, certainly.”

“That goes without saying.” Wylla giggles, mood lifted, and she squeals when Arya hits her with a pillow before hitting her back, both of them still laughing and shrieking when Rickon bursts in, Shaggydog and Nymeria at his heels, wondering what in the Seven Hells all the racket was.

 

* * *

 

Despite Arya’s support and the very helpful letter Sansa had left her, Wylla still feels hugely overwhelmed after speaking with Sam about all the duties that are to become hers upon her marriage.

She is to run the keep, essentially, provide council to Bran when asked—though she doubts he would ever try to silence her in the way Little Walder Frey had, thank the Seven—manage the food stores, host the bannermen if and when they came to visit—

They are all duties she recognizes from her childhood as things her mother has done, things that Wynafryd will do when she is Lady of White Harbor, but Wylla has always been willfully Wylla, the spare, the puzzle, the odd, outspoken one with green hair. She has never had to consider being the ruler of a lord’s keep, let alone the lady-wife of the highest ranking noble throughout the entirety of the North.

And the weight of being Lady Stark is staggering, even with the wedding still weeks away and her maiden’s cloak still folded neatly in her trunks; it is not as if she can beg a day off when she is tired or simply vanish into the library when she would rather read than deal with an argument between a kitchen maid and a stable boy.

And she tries very hard, so very hard to keep her growing anxieties from Bran.

He has enough of his own, after all, between the near constant squabbling between the bannermen, constant letters from the King and Queen, and the still rather ravaged state of the entire North, now four years removed from the final battle.

So she squares her shoulders, reads more than she ever has in her life, and spends much of her time with Sam, trying to ensure that she does her family, her betrothed, and her kingdom proud.

 

* * *

 

“I thought I might find you here.”

Wylla nearly jumps out of her skin; she had been so engrossed in the book on crops Sansa’s Lord Tyrell had been kind enough to send her that she had not heard Bran’s approach in the library; quite a feat, considering the noise his wheeled chair makes on the stone floors.

She knows she must look a fright; she has been in the library for hours, trying to determine if there was a way to expand the greenhouse to include more crops so that they might feed more of the people of the town if needed, and the wisps of hair she feels against her cheek indicates her braid is likely coming undone.

“Bran.” She says warmly, closing the book. “Have I missed lunch?”

He shakes his head, smiling shyly at her.

Of all of his smiles, she thinks that might be her favorite, because it tends to mean he’s done something sweet—there had been lilies in her room again, and she knows for certain that it was not Sansa this time and he had blushed near as red as Rickon’s hair when she’d mentioned them.

“I have something to show you, my lady.” Bran says “If I may distract you from your books?”

“There’s nothing I would like more.” Wylla says. “Except, perhaps, if you would call me by my name, as we have agreed.”

The shy smile returns in full force with an accompanying blush and she has to bite her tongue to keep from giggling.

“Wylla, then.” He says, the tiniest hint of laughter in his voice. “There’s something I would very much like to show you.” She nods eagerly, only for her smile to dim when he holds out a scrap of fabric towards her, looking more pink-cheeked than before. “It’s not much of a surprise if you see it early.” Bran explains. “So I thought perhaps you might cover your eyes? If you do not find the thought of a blindfold offensive, that is, I by no means intend to imply that you would sneak—”

“Bran.” Wylla interrupts, stifling yet another giggle. “I will happily wear a blindfold if that is what you require.”

He blushes deeper at that and his still embarrassed face is the last thing she sees before she slips the fabric around her eyes, tying it in a knot at the back of her head. “You will have to lead me, I think.”

“Here.” He says, taking her hands in his—the warmth of them is shocking, as is the way his larger fingers fit over hers, and Wylla is suddenly glad for the cloth covering half of her face—and placing them on the back of his chair. “Hold tight, my lady.”

“Wylla.” She reminds him again, smiling despite how silly she feels being unable to see.

She follows him blindly, well aware of the occasional giggles of serving girls, and the confused call of “My lord? My lady?” from Maester Samwell, as well as Rickon’s sudden appearance at her side, smelling strongly of fresh air and sweat and direwolf.

“You roll.” He tells Bran. “Lemme lead Wylla b’fore you run yourself into a door.”

“Rickon,” Bran grumbles, sounding rather put out, “I can manage this on my own.”

“S’gonna take you hours to get there.” Rickon retorts. “B’sides, Wylla looks daft, tottering along after you.”

“My lords,” Wylla interrupts, because she may not be able to see but her hand is near enough to Bran’s shoulder that she can feel the tension there, and she has known Rickon long enough to hear the petulant tone in his voice that likely means a fit brewing, should he not get his way, “why don’t you both lead me? I shall leave one hand on Bran’s chair and let Rickon hold the other.”

“Fair enough, my—” Bran starts to say but Wylla clears her throat, turning her head in the direction of his voice with pursed lips. “—Wylla.” He finishes.

Rickon crows with laughter as Wylla’s mouth falls open; she hadn’t meant for him to correct himself quite like that! Though, she supposes it’s true, for all intents and purposes. In just a few weeks’ time, she _will_ be his Wylla and he will be her Bran. That alone is to make her blush again, and to follow along without another word once Rickon and Bran move forward again.

A few minutes later, Wylla assumes they’ve reached their destination—somewhere outside, because they’d had to walk through a doorway and the air was less musty here, more fresh—because Rickon releases her hand to throw his arms around her waist in a hug.

“D’you know where we are, Wylla?”

She smiles in what she hopes the direction of his face is. “I’m afraid not. You both did a wonderful job of keeping me guessing on the route here.”

“Bran’ll tell you.” Rickon says, releasing her and stepping back. “E’s had this planned for _months._ ”

“Rickon.” Bran says sharply.

“I know, I know,” Rickon sighs wearily, sounding like someone who has listened to the same argument time and time again. “It’s your surprise.”

And with that, Wylla hears him scamper off, calling for Shaggydog and Arya, to come and play while Bran was being the Lord again.

They’re both silent for a moment, Wylla only just holding back another round of laughter—if she thought sisters quarreled, it seemed that nothing compared to brothers—and Bran shifting in his chair.

“I must confess I am at a loss at what this surprise could be.” She finally says, moving her hand a little to rest on his shoulder in place of his chair. “The greenhouse would be hotter, so I know it must not be more lilies to put in my room.”

Bran laughs softly at that, his hand coming to rest on hers for a moment before giving her a gentle tug that she takes to mean to come around the chair to stand before him. “I will remove the blindfold now, if you will permit it.” He says, voice as soft and gentle as his laughter.

She turns her head and bends a little, so that he can reach the knot, and Wylla swears—despite knowing it to be not only utterly silly but also quite impossible—that time stops for a moment when Bran’s hands slide cautiously through her hair, careful to not pull a single strand out of place as he loosens the blindfold.

It slips off easily, only to reveal that Bran’s face is much closer than she had originally thought.

His eyes were more blue than green, she realizes, and darker by far than the sky blue of Sansa and Rickon’s eyes. There were the beginnings of a beard were on his cheeks, more brown than the auburn color of his hair.  

She almost thinks to ask, _is this the surprise?—_ but for the fact that he is Brandon Stark, and far too honorable to kiss her for the first time in such a manner.

But then Bran releases her and she steps back, feeling oddly flustered before taking in just where they are. “The stables?” She asks, wondering what he could possibly be meaning to surprise her with here.

“Yes.” He says, looking somewhat dazed. “Look in the third stall on the left.”

Giving him one last, querulous look, she does as he asks, only to be greeted by a whinny and possibly the most beautiful horse she’s ever seen. Its coat is grey, dappled with white spots that match its mane, and it looks at her with gorgeous brown eyes that seem to twinkle in the candlelight. Wylla gasps inaudibly, reaching one hand out to stroke the animal’s snout gently. The horse leans into her touch almost instantly, seemingly as interested in her as she is in—him? Her?

“Who does this beautiful creature belong to?” She asks, not daring to hope that a horse such as this would be masterless.

“You, if you’ll have her.” Bran answers, and Wylla must will herself not to whirl around to gawk at him—doing so would only frighten the horse before her and she would not do that for all the world. “My brother tells me that you’re an excellent horsewoman. It seemed a shame that you did not have your own mount to ride.”

With one last stroke of the horse’s—her horse’s, by the Seven, she can scarcely believe it—Wylla turns to face him again, one hand pressed to her mouth.

His face is drawn, so obviously anxious that it nearly hurts to look at him. “I suppose I should have asked beforehand, but—”

Wylla laughs, giving a wild, uncontrollable little twirl in her glee. “No you certainly should not have! Oh, Bran, this is…I cannot tell you what this means.”

Bran’s face relaxes, eyes widening. “You…you approve, then?”

“Approve? I more than approve!” And she cannot stop herself from crossing the stables in a near run, flinging her arms around his neck in a hug and kissing his cheek before she can think better of it. “No one has ever given me such a gift. Thank you.”

His arms go around her cautiously, so carefully that it is as if he thinks she may break if he even moves a muscle, and she lingers there a moment, more than content to breathe in the crisp, always-wintery smell of his hair.

It is Bran who pulls away first, looking both embarrassed and delighted, all at once. “What shall you call her?”

Wylla thinks for a moment, looking back at the grey dappled mare, who seems to be looking right back at her.

A word comes to mind and she smiles, thinking of how well the name shall fit with all of the other animals of House Stark.

“Veris.” She says.

“Old Valyrian.” Bran says. “What does it mean?”

Wylla’s grin widens. “Spring.”

The smile he gives her then is no longer shy, and she suspects she may come to love that one best of all.

 

* * *

 

Not a week later, an urgent raven comes from White Harbor, and all thoughts of marriage or love or anything else are suddenly irrelevant compared to what is written on the pages there.

 _Wynafryd suffers greatly carrying this child, sweetling._ Papa writes. _We think it may bring her some comfort to have you at her side the last few weeks she is carrying, if Lord Stark will permit your absence._

 ** _I am so afraid, sis._** Humfrey’s letter says. **_I cannot imagine life without her and the children ask for her constantly, but she is too weak to see them and I am too weak to tell them the truth…_**

Arya reads the letters with her lips pressed into a thin line. “You have to go, then. If it were Sansa who was so sick, nothing in the whole realm would keep me from going to her.”

“But—Arya, the wedding—” Wylla starts to say, only to be silenced by the look her soon-to-be good sister gives her.

“My brother understands the value of family, Wylla. He will not keep you from your sister when she needs you like this, not even to wed him.”

That does not help lessen the overwhelming guilt she feels when she finds Bran in his solar and he looks up from his own parchment with a bright smile.

“I heard tale that you had ordered Veris saddled.” He says. “I was thinking of joining you; it has been some time since I’ve ridden, but I think I could use some fresh air—” He pauses as he takes in her surely drawn face and the way her hands tremble as she holds the letters out to him. “Wylla? Is something the matter?”

“I am afraid so.” She says. “My sister—Wynafryd—is very ill and Papa—my father—has asked if I might come home until the babe is born.”

The blankness that slides over his face reminds Wylla eerily of the first time they met and it hurts how suddenly six years can be stripped away to make them strangers again.

“I see.” He says, in his most neutral voice. Rickon calls it his lord’s voice and hates it. Currently, Wylla feels much the same. “And how long do you think that will take?”

“She is near the end of her time already.” Wylla answers. “I would not ask at all, not with our wedding so close, but if Wyn were to—if something were to happen and I were not—”

“Peace, Wylla.” Bran interrupts. He looks immeasurably weary all of a sudden and Wylla feels even worse; this letter could not have come at a more inopportune time…if it only it had come a week later, she might have asked as his wife, already bound in word and deed, instead of feeling like a thief, slipping away in the night with stolen promises. “You have my full and free permission to be with your sister.”

“Thank you.” She says, giving his hand a squeeze. He does not return it and she masks her hurt by taking the letters back, slipping them into her sleeve. “I shall leave as soon as Veris is ready.”

He nods, eyes distant, seemingly looking through her once more.

“Bran.” Wylla says, unable to stop herself. “It is not that I want to go.” But no, that’s wrong—she does want to go, because Wyn needs her and she misses her sister terribly and would do anything to ease her family’s worries—but she wants to stay as well, stay and marry Bran under the heart tree and become Lady Stark and embark on the adventure she is nearly certain now that the Gods intended for her this whole time. “I will come back as soon as possible. I swear it.”

Bran smiles at her then, but it is a sad sort of smile, like he doesn’t quite believe what she’s saying.  “Safe travels to you, Wylla. And may the Gods watch over your sister and her unborn child.”

And Wylla is struck with the wrongness of it all, how queer it feels to be uncertain about the man before her. She opens her mouth to say something else—what, she’s not quite sure—when one of the guards at the door interrupts her.

“Your horse is ready, my lady.”

The last glimpse she has of him before the doors close and she wills herself to think of Wyn and Wyn alone is Bran alone at the table, head sinking to rest in his hands.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks later, as she holds her newest niece in her arms for the first time, her last, uncomfortable exchange with her betrothed is the last thing on her mind.

“Oh, Wyn.” Wylla sighs. “She looks just like you, but for her eyes. Those are entirely dear Humfrey’s.”

“Pity she couldn’t look more like her wonderful aunt.” Wyn says softly, still drenched in sweat and propped up by a veritable mound of pillows. “Perhaps she then she would inherit some of your strength instead of my weakness.”

“I trust you did not just call yourself ‘weak’ in my hearing, sister.” Wylla retorts, running a finger over the wisp of dirty blonde hair on the babe’s head. “You have birthed four children in scarcely six years. It makes a war look like child’s play in comparison.”

Wynafryd laughs, voice still softer and weaker than Wylla would like, but the maester says that’s to be expected, after the difficult time she’s had.

“You are monopolizing my granddaughter, Wylla.” Mother says, coming to lift the babe from her arms. Wylla smiles, pressing a kiss to her niece’s downy head before kissing her mother’s cheek as well. Their relationship has improved drastically of late, something she suspects has to do with how much her presence had soothed her sister during the last weeks of her pregnancy. Mother smiles back at her, touching Wylla’s cheek with her free hand. “Your father wanted me to tell you there is a raven for you.”

Wylla’s stomach drops at that, the memories of the last, awkward exchange with Bran rushing forward in her mind, as well as Rickon’s stony expression the morning she’d left, despite Arya’s scoldings.

“Go and read what your Brandon has written you, sister.” Wyn says, offering the first, true, Wynafryd smile Wylla has seen in weeks, full of mischief and mirth and affection. “I am sure he must resent me very much from keeping the two of you wed.”

Wylla forces a laugh; Wyn could not know, does not know, will not know, that she thinks Bran may rather resent her, not her sister, for the delay in their wedding.

“Shall I send Humfrey in on my way out?” She asks, willing levity into her tone. “I am sure he is anxious to meet his new daughter.”

“He’s more anxious to see how his wife fares.” Mother agrees. “Poor Humfrey has been beside himself for hours.”

“Daft man.” Wynafryd huffs, but there is no hiding the look of naked affection on her face.

Wylla is glad for her.

Wylla envies her.

But she sends her good-brother in nonetheless, despite the fact that she can barely get the words out of her mouth before he barrels into the room without so much as a by-your-leave.

Papa is waiting for her in his solar, letter in hand. “This is the sixth letter in two weeks, my girl.” He says, grinning widely at her.  “I think your betrothed is very keen on having you back in Winterfell again.”

She cannot bear to tell him that all five letters have been from Arya, not Bran.

“I must confess I am eager to return as well.” Wylla says, taking the letter with a small smile. “I am glad I could be here to help Wyn, Papa, I truly am, but—”

“Say no more, sweetling.” He tuts, crooking a finger under her chin. “I know a lovesick look when I see it.” She blushes and Papa laughs, kissing her forehead before releasing her. “It seems just like yesterday you were no older than the babe your sister just birthed and now you stand before me a woman grown and nearly wed. It makes me feel very old.”

“What nonsense. You are far from old, Papa.” She says, lightly hitting his arm with the letter.

Papa laughs. “I am old, Wylla. Old and very, very proud of whom my girls have become.”

She hugs him tightly, gratified to find his arms offer as much comfort now as they did when she was a little girl, still small enough to climb onto his shoulders or curl in his lap to read.

“Enough sentiment.” He says, voice thick with tears neither of them will mention. “I have a new granddaughter to meet and you have a letter to read.”

He leaves soon after, leaving her to settle into one of the many, plush chairs and to read Arya’s latest letter.

 _I hope by the time this reaches you, you have a new niece or nephew and your sister has come past the worst of her childbearing pains._ It reads. _I will remind you again that you made the right choice by going, Wylla, especially if your presence soothed your sister’s mind as much as you said it did._

_That being said, I really must beg you to return as quickly as possible. Rickon is insufferable, claiming that everyone that goes south never comes back again, which is clearly not true based on my presence in Winterfell, and Bran…_

_Truth be told, my brother is behaving a spoilt brat, short-tempered and melancholy by turns._

_He will not say so, but he misses you terribly, Wylla, and though he will not tell me exactly how your last meeting went, I know him well enough to know he regrets it._

_He has not said this either, but I am beginning to worry that he thinks you intend not to return._

Wylla stares blindly at the page for a moment. Not return? They had not parted on the best of terms, surely, but she was promised to him, and he to her!

She is of half a mind to order Veris saddled this instant and to ride to Winterfell and give Lord Brandon Stark such a scolding that he would never forget it. To think she would break a promise of such magnitude! To abandon not only him and his brother and sisters, who are as dear to her as her own kin, but to break their betrothal as well—

_“Then you must understand that the rumors are true.” He had said, those blue-green eyes ancient in his young face. “I had hoped to tell you in my own time, to give you time to consider other options…if you wish to break our betrothal, I would understand, my lady.”_

Realization dawns on Wylla and she claps a hand to her mouth.

“Oh, you silly man.” She whispers. “You daft, foolish thing.”

Still, after all this time, after coming to know each other, he worries that she thinks him a monster.

The thought is so absurd that she cannot help but laugh, the sound bubbling from her throat and echoing in her Papa’s solar.

The quill is feather-light in her hand when she writes her response.

_Arya,_

_By the time this reaches you, I will be halfway home. To Winterfell._

 

 

* * *

 

Papa looks hugely amused when she calls their train to a stop nearly two miles from Winterfell.

“I would like to ride ahead, if I may.” She says, trying to keep the giddiness from her voice. “Veris and I have been restraining ourselves so that everyone may keep up and I should like for her to run out some of her energy before I arrive home.”

“Spoken like a true Lady Stark.” Papa laughs. “Ride on, my girl, but do promise me you shall turn up in time for dinner.”

She shoots him one last wink before spurring Veris on—her horse is as good a mount as she is beautiful and Wylla feels something like a bird as they race along the road, her hair streaming behind her as they ride up to the gates.

The guards must have spotted her coming, for the gates are open and Rickon comes racing into the yard just as she dismounts.

“Wylla!” He crows, leaping on her at the same moment Shaggydog does, bringing them all down in an ungraceful pile of woman and boy and direwolf. “You’re back!”

She’s so happy to see him that she can’t help but to cover his face in kisses. It’s a sign of how much he must have missed her that he doesn’t protest or make her stop, but rather waits patiently until she’s finished. He grins wolfishly at her as he pulls her to her feet. “Y’can’t leave again. Promise?”

“I promise. And glad as I am to see you, I really must speak with your brother.”

Rickon’s smile turns down in a frown. “He’s in the godswood. S’been there for two days, now.”

Wylla frowns as well. “Well, that simply will not do.” She eyes Rickon for a moment before handing him Veris’s reigns. “Will you make sure she gets to the stables for me?”

Rickon nods and she ruffles his hair before turning and hurrying through the keep, trying to attract as little attention as a woman with green hair in a riding cloak can.

 

* * *

 

The godswood truly is beautiful and Wylla regrets that she this is the first time she has ever entered it, in nearly 6 years of visits to Winterfell.

The weirwood is stunning, its red leaves bright and eye-catching against the green of the other trees, and it isn’t hard to find her way to its base, with its eerie, weeping face seemingly staring back at her.

Bran is leaning against the base of the tree, eyes open but not white, so she knows she will not be interrupting or startling him when she makes herself known.

He looks so at home here, out of his chair, away from the stone walls of the keep and the darkness of the Great Hall. Here, in the sunshine and the fresh air and the shade of a weirwood, he looks whole. He looks at peace.

She knows enough of what Sansa and Arya—even Rickon, in his more absent-minded moments—have told her of Bran’s warging that he can slip into a weirwood as easily as he can Summer. It should frighten her, this ability of his, this part of him that she may never come to understand, but how can it when it makes him look so at home?

So she steps closer, smiling a little before saying, “I thought I might find you here.”

His head whips in her direction in an almost alarming rate and she would laugh, but for the look he gives her.

Bran looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time, blue-green eyes wide and—awe? Wonder? Shock?—is plain on his face.

“You—” And he has to pause, clearly trying to find the words. “You came back?”

Wylla takes another few steps forward, giving him a curious look. “Of course I came back."

He reaches for the arm of his chair, seemingly on the verge of attempting to haul himself into it, but Wylla reaches him before he can, stopping him with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Did you think I would not?” She asks, settling down beside him. This is the closest they have ever been, besides the day he’d given her Veris and she’d flung her arms around him in a hug, and it is both thrilling and comfortable to be so close.

Bran stares at her for a moment before giving a dark sort of chuckle. “Arya wrote to you.”

“She did.” Wylla confirms. “Though that had little influence on me returning, besides increasing the rate at which I packed my trunk.”

He laughs then, truly laughs, and it’s the most boyish sound she’s ever heard come out of his mouth. And then his fingers intertwine with hers, squeezing tightly as if to keep her there by her hand alone. “You are here.” Bran says. “Truly.”

“I am.” She says, reaching up to lay her free hand against his cheek and smiling at the scratchiness of a new beard that she finds there. “And I swear to you, Bran, I will never leave again unless you order me to go.”

His hand comes up to cover hers, shifting it over to his mouth so he can press a kiss to her knuckles. “You would be waiting a long time for that, my lady.”

She blushes. “Wylla, Bran.”

Bran’s eyes soften and he drops her hand so he can weave his into her hair, pulling her closer so that their foreheads are pressed together. “Stay, Wylla.”

“As my lord commands.” Wylla laughs and then he’s kissing her, or maybe she’s kissing him—either way, it feels wonderful, it feels like home and warmth and tastes even better, like spiced wine.  His other hand snakes into her hair, cradling her head—a wise choice, considering how everything seems to be spinning—and she clings as close to him as she can, sighing into his mouth when he gently tilts her head one way, so that he can kiss her deeper.

She’s not quite sure which of them comes to the conclusion first, but it suddenly becomes obvious that kissing while sitting side by side is not the most comfortable position—her neck is already beginning to twinge a little, but Bran’s mouth is so clever and his hands so gentle that she cannot _bear_ the thought of asking him to stop kissing her—

It would appear that her betrothed has a gift for this sort of thing, because his hands slide from her hair to her waist and he pulls her onto his lap as if she weighs no more than a feather—they do stop kissing a moment when she squeaks in surprise and Bran freezes, obviously terrified he’s done the wrong thing.

“I did not mean to offend—” He starts to say but Wylla interrupts him with a kiss, smiling against his lips as he slumps against the base of the tree for a moment.

“There was no offense.” She tells him, grinning unabashedly at his awestruck expression. “You merely surprised me.”

His cheeks flame for a moment and his eyes flick downwards to where her hands rest against his chest. “Would it surprise you more to know that I have wanted to do that for some time?”

Wylla giggles, unable to stop herself. “Only if it would surprise you to hear the same.”

He beams at her for scarcely two seconds before he kisses her again, fiercer and hungrier—she had never thought to apply the term to kissing before, but yes, that was what this kiss was, hungry and demanding and _wonderful_ —than before. Wylla suspects they could have stayed there, kissing for hours, had a sudden burst of laughter not reached them and caused both her and Bran to jump and pull away.

“I suppose it is a very good thing that I was the one who came to look for you two instead of Rickon.” Arya laughs.

Wylla feels her cheeks flush crimson and she hides her face against Bran’s shoulder, gratified to feel his hand run over her back in a soothing motion, despite the embarrassment he is surely feeling as well.

“I shan’t say a word.” Arya promises, still sounding entirely too smug for Wylla’s taste. “But you should both know that Sansa’s invited me to visit Highgarden, and if what I just witnessed indicates how the pair of you is going to behave after you’re married, I will have to take her up on her offer.”

 

* * *

 

Their wedding passes in a blur—one moment it seems Papa is tying her maiden’s cloak around her shoulder and within a blink she’s bending so that Bran can kiss her beneath the heart tree and then once more in the newly rebuilt sept. Wylla supposes she should try to remember every detail to tell Sansa (and mayhaps her and Bran’s future children) but all she can focus on is the curve of her husband’s lips and the feel of his fingers twined with hers.

There has been no expense spared for this, on either side; House Manderly is one of the richest in the North, and House Stark has had an influx in their coffers from Sansa’s recent betrothal, but all the fine wine and rich foods and extravagant decoration matters so little when compared to the joy she feels at being able to thump Bran’s shoulder freely when he makes some sort of jape, to sneak kisses between bits of food, to have Summer’s head come to rest in her lap and receive her favorite sort of smile from her husband.

Wylla is well aware there is talk—there will always be talk—still of her husband being a warg, a greenseer, a monster…but there is talk of her as well, of Lord Stark’s brash, green-haired bride, who had ridden into Winterfell without a guard or proper chaperone, already acting as if she owned the place.

And with how handsome of a man Bran has grown to be, she is not sure which of them will be called ‘beauty’ and the other ‘beast’. People are so fickle and ultimately critical of what they do not understand.

But, she cares little for that now, not with Arya finally being cajoled into dancing by the King and Queen’s representative, Ned Dayne of Starfall, or Rickon arm-wrestling with the Greatjon and crowing triumphantly when the big man lets him win while Papa looks on, muffling laughter behind his hand.

“Are you happy, Lady Stark?” Bran’s voice is warm and closer to her ear than she’d thought. She turns to look at him and finds his face only inches from hers, still wearing her favorite smile.

“Beyond happy, Lord Stark.” She tells him and the hall breaks into cheers and wolf-whistles when he kisses her.

It is funny, Wylla thinks later, when she is pulled into Bran’s lap and Arya blocks the crowd while they wheel  away, both laughing so hard that they can scarcely breathe, that she had ever thought of marriage as anything less than an adventure.

Somehow, she thinks she has managed to find the happiest ending of all.


End file.
